


Good Old Days

by mresundance



Category: Bandom, Real Person Fiction, The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreamy, escapist PWP. Pete and Carl in the good ol' days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Old Days

Back in what Carl considers to be the good ol' days – Peter's insistence that the mythical time survived past their avarice and his addictions to the present _now_ be damned – lying on the mattress they called a bed in that first flat they had shared.

The mattress they had rescued from a wheely bin and the flat was basement affair, full of gloom and shadows and the reek of rubbish and piss from the streets that leaked through the one window whenever they dared to open it. Even if it stank, the breeze from the window stirred and relieved the thick, sullen heat that would settle in the flat during the summer months.

It was an early morning hour, one in which it was cool enough to keep the window shut. No rumble of traffic yet, maybe a few echoes of footsteps, of the night crowds from clubs staggering their ways home, or a junkie shambling off to a new alley to sleep in. Soft golden sunlight falling on the both of them, naked, thin ragged blankets thrown off last night in a hurricane of bodies and sweat and kisses and caresses. Carl spooning Peter, nuzzling his shoulder and breathing in his scent – which is something like smoke and a lovely, organic smell that will disappear with time, with drug abuse - something like onions and apples to Carl. He sighs and kisses his shoulder. Peter murmurs drowsily. Carl smiles softly and his fingers trace the pink coils of Peter's ear. Over and over, ringing around, delicate and silken shell, kissing Peter's throat right under and behind the ear, where his jaw meets his neck.

Peter stirs, just a little, and grins mostly to himself, feeling Carl's fingers on his ear.

Peter had come home rambling the day before, about this stupid customer who had insisted they had a certain kind of marmalade they didn't and then telling Peter to they did and he was just not helping her, to which he had said she could fuck herself and unfortunately the manager was within earshot the next isle over, by the crisps, when he realized he was talking to a naked arse on their mattress.

Carl had peered over his shoulder – also naked as the rest of him – at Peter and crinkled a brow that was supposed to be his way of pretending to listen sympathetically. Though his gutter-crawling mind was thinking, fuck, I've sat here waiting and being horny and this marmalade thing might mean no sex for Carl.

Peter had swallowed, usually astute mind jamming. This was just. Not expected. In any of the antics he and Carl had gotten up to as of late on top of their half rotted little mattress, Peter had been the one to initiate. The first morning – months gone – when Carl had rolled over and discovered Peter's gigantic boner, Carl had ignored it until Peter started kissing him and started helpfully relieving him of the burden of his clothes and the illusion that he didn't want to nail Carl in all 302 interesting ways he knew how (a number which had gone up considerably, too, since he had started nailing Carl). It had become rather normal for Peter to casually lean over and start feeling Carl up at 2 in the morning, and Carl was used to waking up with Peter looking mischievous and starting to suck him off.

But it wasn't fair, Carl had been reflecting that morning after Peter had gone to work, and maybe he should be a bit more involved than lying around waiting for the next ravaging. On the onset, he had been unsure about the whole idea of shagging his mate, but it was so bloody good he thought, oh bugger it. Caution, meet wind and Carl naked on the mattress and Peter ogling as if he had never seen a naked Carl before.

Carl, smirking and flattered that the sight of him could do such a thing to Peter, rolled over with a cavalier toss of his hair from his eyes and curled his fingers in a come hither gesture. Peter's own cock leapt in joy when he saw Carl's cock, rather hard and swollen.

Clothes showering to the floor, Peter naked, on Carl, forgetting his regrettable firing kissing, feeling their bodies slide against one another, hot rasping skin.

'Mmmm, Carl, very, good, very – oh-' Peter moaned as their cocks bumped and said hello to each other. Carl had shivered and twittered a laugh.

But frottage was not to be when Carl broke off and rolled back onto his stomach, one smooth movement, back and shoulder muscles rippling and Peter thought he might just come and pass out from the mere sight when as Carl parted his legs and looked over his shoulder at Peter.

'Come on, I'm not waiting the rest of the bloody day,' Carl had said, voice languid and dripping.

Peter had gone cross-eyed for a minute, with glee and sexual distraction, before his muddled brain had snagged on an idea. Then he had promptly ducked down, kissed and nipped Carl's round, lovely right cheek, and begun to enthusiastically tongue-fuck him. Carl had hissed, shock going through his whole body and he had clutched the mattress, digging stubs of nails in the tatty cushions. Then he had started to moan, in time to Peter's frantic rhythm. Pete would glance at him and marvel at that debauched picture, the arc of his neck, his lips curled in a gasping grin, black hair sticking to his forehead, shoulders trembling and sweating.

Carl had always thought Peter had a rather clever tongue. And just _how_, he had learned in more recent months, feeling his wits unravel with every stroke, a trembling in his knees that reminded him of that summer, of being 15 again and lying in the long grass of Somerset and falling into the copper glint of his first lover's hair. It had only been that afternoon and he had thought, what bullocks, all this business with sex, after, but it had been the waiting, the anticipation, the dread that shattered knees and felt like bees in the stomach that he really remembered.

Peter started to croon into Carl, sighing and humming. Carl shouted and started to slip into a vertigo, an uneven, jerking tumble and he heard himself somewhere, pleading and keening.

'Peter, please,' he sobbed. Please what, Peter wanted to know and Carl, shaking and curled under him, eyes snapped shut and hanging onto the mattress like he was going to spin off the edge of the earth itself made his heart contract.

Maybe Carl didn't know either – then at least – as Peter slid up his back and there he was, fitting himself in Carl and Carl had bitten his lip around his moan and it was Peter's turn to quiver as he felt Carl's flesh close around him.

'Fuck,' he swore. Carl whimpered.

And around them, the entire city of London, listing under a smoky twilight, roared as all the lights and the electrical machines blazed, and there was a holy panicking in the streets and the dome of Saint Paul's collapsed in the half moonlight and London Bridge was sinking to the murky depths of the Thames before everything stopped and it was dark, and night, and even the moon and stars were put out.

'Fuck,' Carl swore this time, and to Peter, rushing still in his ears, thought he sounded like him, Peter him, that is, something like that, and that the heat had been such that skin and bone had melted and they were, in fact, welded to each other which was funny enough to make Peter laugh. And Carl laughed not knowing what the hell was funny except that it was nice to laugh after sex and who cared anymore?

The morning, curling his fingers over and over the shell of Peter's ear.

'Wot're you on about?' Peter yawns.

Carl mumbles something that sounds vaguely like 'your ear' and it sounds like the most stupidly profoundly sacred thing ever whispered.


End file.
